Kin Za Za
by azure-chan
Summary: Life is naught but a haunting melody.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: AU SM/GW. No characters are mine. The title "Kin Za Za" is not original—it is a band.  
AN: A change in the title. Enjoy.

**Kin Za Za  
**AzureChan

**: I :**

It was, again, midnight. Not any normal midnight, though. It was that hopeless midnight, that frustrating midnight. The midnight that all college students hated because it marked the starting point of a fruitless night of frenetic studying. The midnight that young parents dreaded because their newborn felt a sense of urgency to test out its new, highly advanced vocal chords and the patience of its new keepers. It was the midnight that spoke of last-resort decisions and gloomy foreshadows. Yes, it was that midnight.

She found herself scribbling furiously upon paper, and then erasing one word, two, and finally, all. It was beginning to seem tedious, this process of writing and then removing. But, whatever it took, she would finish this letter, and it would be perfect. It would explain everything she had been hiding from him, everything she had wanted to say but could not. It would prove their daughter's point and leave him with a choice to make or break her future. She began to write again.

"_Dear Darling…"_

No.

She scratched lines through the two words, then, harried, shoved her eraser on the paper and dragged it back and forth quickly to erase all traces of lead. Darling was an endearing word, but it was one she only used when she wanted something. This was not going to start out an alarming letter; she didn't want him automatically thinking that she needed something. She was independent.

"I can do this," she told herself softly, whispering so as not to wake the other members of her household. Under the desk lamp, the paper she wrote on looked almost golden because of the light's glow. She thought it rather pretty. It was an ethereal glow, a soothing glow. A glow that spoke of promise and success.

Her head throbbed.

"Focus," she chastised. "There's no way around this…"

And she began to write again.

"_Love,_

_I'm sure you're wondering why I've written you a letter instead of speaking to you directly, but my thoughts are so misplaced that I couldn't possibly speak aloud one word at a time. It would all come out as gibberish. I've devised this letter to explain to you the reasoning's behind my actions as of late. _

_But I would first like you to know how much I love you. I truly do. I would not have offered my life to you, through better or worse, if I didn't love you with all of my heart. Please keep this love I have for you in the back of your mind as you read my letter. There are so many things that need to be said, and it is very hard for me to tell you all of this._

_I suppose I'll start three months ago…"_

_**X.X.X.X**_

Three months ago.

If she'd only seen it coming, she would have stopped it.

July had been such a pestering month, what with the many heat waves in the morning and the sheet rains in the afternoon. At first, she hadn't known how she was going to deal with not only the mismatched weather, but the fact that Lex was out of school for the summer and scheduled for an appointment with her Pediatrician at three, while she was stuck in traffic on I-75, downtown, and it was already one-thirty.

She sighed, leaning forward over her steering wheel to see if traffic had lightened any. It hadn't. _Stupid Higgins'_, she cursed mentally. _Always trying to exceed their time limits. _Her job was a trying one, and her office building was located right in the heart of Atlanta's bustling city. She was a marriage counselor, and in one full day, she took five appointments from five different couples with five different problems. Her regulars included the Higgins', the Smith's, the Grant's, and the Chang's—this couple she favored, as they were friends of the family. Of course, Mary and Alan Higgins thought it fair that since she had been scheduled to leave early for the day and _they'd_ been scheduled as her last appointment, their time could run over no matter much she tried to cut the session.

And now, she was paying for her soft side by being stuck in heavy traffic on a sweltering day. She'd opted for the air conditioning, but then the gas level caught her eye and she noticed her tank was less-than-half full. Miserably, she had lowered all the windows in the car and made a violent promise to thwart Quatre when he got home from work later that night.

"_Hon, make sure you put extra gas in my car if you're going to use it," she always told him._

"_Mhmm. Love you," he always replied._

He hadn't put any extra gas in her car. On a normal day with little traffic, it took about half-an-hour to get home from her job. It would take at least an hour, maybe more, with this traffic.

She sighed again, reached for her phone, flipped it open, and pressed the number one on the keypad. Immediately, the phone began dialing the number for her child's pediatrician, Dr. Maxwell. Without failure, a thin, nasal voice greeted her from the other line.

"Good afternoon. Dr. Maxwell's office."

It was Molly, his secretary. She scrunched her nose. Molly wasn't her favorite character, particularly because of her apparent school-girl crush on Dr. Maxwell. It made dealing with matters of the doctor quite difficult.

"Oh, hi Molly. This is Mrs. Winner."

"Hello."

She shifted the phone to her shoulder and placed her hands on the wheel. Traffic had loosened a bit. "I'm calling because I have an appointment at three with Dr. Maxwell?"

There was silence for a moment.

"I'm sorry," Molly said finally. "I don't see you on the book."

"I made the appointment two weeks ago," she replied, glaring at the car in front of her. Traffic had stopped. "I know I'm on that book. Are you sure you don't see me?"

"I don't see you, Mrs. Winner," Molly repeated, her tone the same. "Are you sure you're scheduled for today?"

She almost slapped the steering wheel. She'd definitely made the appointment two weeks ago. She had called Molly herself to make the appointment. If the girl had forgotten to add her in Dr. Maxwell's book… "Molly," she stepped on the petal slightly. Traffic inched forward. "Molly, I made the appointment with you two weeks ago. I called in, remember? I have a three o'clock spot. Lex Winner?"

There was another silence, smaller than the last one.

"Oh," Molly replied absently. "_Alexis_ Winner. You didn't tell me the appointment was under your daughter's name."

_I shouldn't have to, _she seethed. _You're the one who wrote down my damned appointment! _

"I'm sorry, Molly," she said. "I need you to relay a message to Dr. Maxwell for me."

"What is it?" her tone changed. It was more attentive, sharp. Almost protective.

Mrs. Winner was annoyed. "I need you to tell him she'll be late for her appointment, please. I'm stuck in traffic and we probably won't get there until around three-thirty or four."

Molly didn't hesitate. "He has other appointments behind you, Mrs. Winner. Dr. Maxwell is a very busy man."

"I know that, Molly," her voice was pinched, words sharp. "I understand how busy he is. All the same, _would you please tell Dr. Maxwell that my daughter, Lex, is going to be late?_"

On the other end, Molly stiffened.

"I'll see what I can do, Mrs. Winner," she said.

"Thank—" the line clicked and was dead.

_**X.X.X.X**_

Quatre got home around eight that evening.

His steps were quick and light, almost like a mouse. He made a beeline toward his office and only stopped to grab the mug of warm tea that she'd left for him on the counter after she finished clearing the dinner dishes. Beside her on the couch, Lex murmured "Daddy's home" while keeping her eyes focused on the television. She didn't even look at her daughter, just stared at Quatre's closed office door.

Lex shifted on the cushions. "Daddy's home," she said again, and turned to tug on her mother. "You said I could have cake when Daddy got home."

"It's too late, now," she replied distantly, then turned to frown at her daughter. "It's way too late," she realized, looking at the VCR's clock. It was flashing eight-fifteen. "It's time for bed, Lex."

The eight-year-old crossed her arms and refused to move. "You said I could have cake when Daddy got home," she whined, eyes focused on the screen. "You _liar_."

Her frown deepened. "Alexis Monroe Winner." The child sank deeper into the cushions, her face sour. "You go to bed, young lady."

"Fine!" Lex exploded, now glaring heatedly at her mother, tears caught in the corners of her eyes. "I don't even _want_ cake!" With a huff, she pushed herself off of the couch and stomped down the hall to her room. Her door closed with an awkward thud, a failed attempt at a slam.

Flipping the television off, she added "Console Lex" to her list of things to do before hitting the sack. It was a parent's job to send their child off to bed on a good note, not a bad one. Statistics proved that children performed better in school when they had a restful, peaceful sleep.

She stood from the couch and swept a hand through her short, choppy hair, then ran the same hand down her shirt to smoothen it. She hadn't changed out of her work clothes, and her work shoes were lying in front of the couch. She ignored them and strode over to Quatre's office, then knocked softly on the door.

"Yes," came the muffled reply.

She opened the door and he looked up at her, patient but expectant. "Hey, honey," she said softly, closing the door behind her to lean on it. "How was work?"

"Oh," he said, and leaned back in his chair to rub his eyes. "Busy. I've been swamped with this new case."

Quatre was a lawyer, and a good one. He was in demand, especially now, when men realized that younger women were more available than ever before and older women responded by surgically becoming younger women. Divorces were on the rise.

"Hm," she replied.

He opened his arms. "Come here. I haven't seen you today," and then he closed his arms when she was seated on his lap. "How about you?"

He was referring to work, and she grimaced. "Alan and Mary ran late today. I almost didn't make Lex's appointment because of them."

"Damn Higgins'," he said, and she chuckled.

"What?"

"Nothing."

He rubbed her back slowly, looking at her searchingly. "You look so tired, Amy," he noted, almost to himself. "So tired."

Amy Winner shook her head, turned it away from him, and forced a smile. "You're trying to say I'm old, aren't you?"

"No. Thirty-five is hardly old." He slid his hands up and down her back. After a silence, he said, "I haven't been around much, have I?"

She shrugged, but it was true. Quatre was usually in his office at work, or in his office at home, working on ways to break up marriages and win his cases. It sounded crude, but it was honest. Because of his current 'project', as he called it sometimes, his visits to home had been short and unromantic. He came from work, he drank his tea, then went back to work in his office. No "hey, honey", no "hey, Lex," no nothing. As a marriage counselor, she knew these signs were red flags to a failing or struggling marriage, but as a wife and mother, she ignored them. _My marriage isn't in trouble_, she often told herself. _Not my marriage. It won't happen to me. _

"I know you're busy," she said finally. "I know Hiiro and Serena are taking up your time."

"Allah," he said, shaking his head. "Why in the world did you send those two to me?" He was joking, but in a way, it was true.

Hiiro and Serena Yui had come to her for marriage counseling before they decided on getting a divorce. After only five sessions and no success, they'd called it quits and looked up Quatre.

She smiled sadly. "Figured it'd give you something to do, I guess." And she was surprised when he hugged her tight.

"I promise you, Amy," he said, his voice muffled against her shirt. "I promise that after these two, I'm taking a break from the law. We'll take Lex on a trip. We'll spend some family time together. I promise you, Amy. I promise."

So when Dr. Maxwell phoned her the next morning, after her first couple had left, her shock was mixed with an unquenchable happiness due to Quatre's news.

"Yeah, it's me," he was saying after she'd answered the phone with: "Is that _you_, Dr. Maxwell?"

Amy sat up straight in her chair, confused. Dr. Maxwell had been married only two years, and she knew this because she'd been invited to his wedding. He was young, right out of graduate school. Him and his new bride were both in their mid-twenties—she'd never asked the specific age—and had, only a year earlier, been talking about baby plans. So his call came as quite a shock.

"Well," she cleared her throat. "Did I miss an appointment, doctor?" she was puzzled, perplexed.

"Oh," he chuckled on the line. "No, you didn't. I was actually calling about more personal matters…"

His voice trailed off, and the revelation was deafening.

"Is there something wrong with your marriage, Dr. Maxwell?"

"Yeah, you could say that," he replied slowly, sadly. "And please, call me Duo."

And then, just like all of her other patients, she was asking him to explain in detail the cause for his call, and after he'd finished, she was setting up an appointment with him. She was booked with regulars, but she found a spot for him at the end of the next week. He'd be her last appointment, at four.

"That's June twentieth, then," she said. "Will your wife be attending the session?"

"No," he said quickly, almost fearfully. "She doesn't even know I'm calling you. It'd be too much of a shock for her to know I'm seeking marriage counseling," his voice sounded sheepish, shy. "You understand…"

And she did. In her line of work, she'd noted how many people often called her without the knowledge of their spouse or life partner. One member of the couple might have wanted a quick, easy divorce, while the other member was still holding onto the marriage and making efforts to save it by calling her. Other people called singularly because they were too ashamed to admit to themselves, nevertheless their spouse, that their marriage was hitting the rocks. Especially at such an early point in the marriage, like Dr. Max—Duo and his new wife.

"Well," she concluded. "I'll see you then, Dr. Maxwell."

"Duo," he replied. "And thanks."

When he hung up, Amy sat back in her chair, scribbling this and that, a few notes, all over the pad in front of her. She did this with all of her appointments. She noted the sound of the patient's voice, the urgency with which the appointment was made, the details surrounding the appointment, etc. She thought a bit more about the reasoning behind Dr. Maxwell's call.

"Duo," she scolded herself. "He said to call him Duo."

From what she could gather, Duo and his new wife, Mina, were a happy couple. At their wedding, they hadn't been able to keep their eyes or hands off of each other, and when Lex, then six, had innocently asked what they were going to do when they got home, someone had yelled "Consummate, consummate, consummate!" and Mina had colored pleasantly while Duo had pecked her cheek.

How had it gone from happy-go-lucky couple, to marriage counseling? In two years? It didn't make sense. Had something gone wrong with either spouse? Infidelity? Maybe the intimate life was low. Most of the couples—the regulars that she saw—had complaints about their intimacy. The wife always wanted something sweet, and the husband was never around to fulfill the desire, or the husband wanted something the wife didn't want to give. Maybe things got mundane; nothing was exciting or new anymore. Had there been a death that would have affected the marriage? Or a birth? Or—

"Amy, you were right. Things got worse before they got better."

She jumped when the door slammed behind her ten-thirty appointments, Rei and Wufei Chang. She'd almost forgotten that they were coming.

Automatically, Rei settled into the chair to the right of Amy's desk, and Wufei to the left. They scooted away from each other a bit, Rei plucking at her hair and Wufei pulling at his shirt. It was obvious they'd argued on the way to her office.

Amy sighed. She had been counseling this couple for at least a year now, and it seemed the more things got better, the quicker they got worse. She wanted to give them both knives, shove them in a room and say "Okay. Now, kill each other," and just be done with it. The thought made her smile guiltily. Rei and Wufei were two fiery tempers living under one two-bedroom apartment, and had been that way for a while. Both were stubborn as ever, but agreed upon smaller living quarters.

"Rei," she smiled, "Wufei. Tell me, what's new?"

"Well," Rei huffed, shooting a pointed glance at her husband, "since you _asked_. Amy, he keeps throwing away all of the stuff I buy him. It's getting so _annoying_."

Amy only nodded and scribbled on her pad. Actually, she was just drawling little stick figurines on the paper. She'd heard the same thing over and over from the couple, and whenever they came in, she had a chance to work on her horrid drawing skills. Lex was better at figurines by far.

"Last week," Rei continued, leaning forward in her cushioned seat, "I told him to come to bed because I had a surprise for him, and he turns around and says he has a surprise for me too. I thought, 'well, that's so sweet,' and asked him what it was. Do you know what his surprise was, Amy?"

Amy shook her head, drew importantly.

"He—"

"I told her that I'd thrown away all of her condoms," Wufei interrupted suddenly, openly annoyed. "And I scattered all of the wrappers around the room as a reminder of what I'd done. She didn't even know she was stepping on them because she was too busy squawking and stomping her foot to hear the crunch the papers made on the ground."

Both women stared at him quite critically.

He crossed his arms and sank into his seat. "Oh, hell," he snapped, glaring somewhere off in the room. "I knew I shouldn't have come."

Amy sat back in her seat, itching to rest her feet up on her desk. She'd known this couple personally from her teenaged years, when they first got together in high school. It was one of the reasons she didn't understand the root of their problems. But through their sessions, she'd learned many things about them.

Both were stubborn as mules, but deeply committed to their relationship and earnest in their need of a change. With personalities like theirs, the chance of them ever reconciling or saving their marriage was slim if they hadn't been so bent on keeping it intact. They both had high, strong morals and a monogamous relationship, and both wanted to have children one day.

But Rei had a problem with protection. She wasn't ready for children just yet, and she didn't believe in taking pills. Impurities for the body, she called them. So, of course, the next best thing to use for protection was a condom.

But Wufei had a problem with condoms. He argued that since they were married and safe, they shouldn't use condoms because the rubbers represented a sense of unsafe intercourse. A barrier for the pure, he called them.

Both failed to realize the reasoning behind the other's wants and needs. Rei wanted protection not because she didn't trust Wufei, but because she didn't want children just yet, and pills were out of the question for her. Wufei wanted enforce the strength of their marriage; a way to prove their commitment.

And then there were other deeper problems that she sensed from the undertones, such as the way Rei always plucked and patted at her hair. Amy suspected that maybe Wufei felt resentment toward Rei since she cut it some years ago. Rei's hair had once been long and free, thick and silky, and Wufei had always been openly fond of it. He used to stroke it, run his fingers through it, pet it, adore it. Rei cut it when she went into Real Estate to look more professional, and Amy had never heard him say another word about it since.

Likewise, Amy suspected Rei had a silent, unending complaint about Wufei's choice of clothing. The couple was well off due to Rei's flourishing profession and Wufei's growing enterprise, Chang Arts, a Martial Arts training center, and Rei had adapted to this acquired wealth by changing her look. So, naturally, Amy inferred that Rei expected Wufei to follow suit; he hadn't. Wufei still wore the same kind of gi and hairstyle from back in his grade school days when he was an avid Martial Artist. Amy guessed that his attachment to tradition was conflicting with Rei's _detachment_ to tradition, as she had previously been a temple chief when Wufei had begun to court her in their teenaged years.

"…always does this," Rei was complaining, sweeping her hand quickly through her hair every now and again. "And I don't understand _what _his problem is. It isn't as if the whole world stops for him!"

Amy nodded empathetically and sketched a crude image of a sea beneath a jagged sun. She frowned at her poor creation.

"What?"

She looked up. "What?"

"You frowned," Rei looked worried. "What did I say?"

Wufei, too, was looking at Amy, less interested but still attentive.

Caught in her act, Amy colored a bit and cleared her throat, then tore the piece of paper she'd been doodling on. She slipped it underneath the pad and spread her hands wide across her desk.

"Well," she said, looking at the couple, "you both seem to have the same problem you always do."

"Yes?" Wufei frowned. "What is it?"

"A lack of communication." The couple looked at each other, back at Amy, and stared disagreeably.

Amy sighed. For two people who couldn't agree, they certainly did act the same. "Look," she said, addressing Wufei. "Rei complains about your habitual nagging of her to get rid of the condoms. In truth, she's not quite ready for children yet, and—"

"Oh, no," Rei waved her hand as if to dismiss Amy's diagnosis. "We're _far_ past that problem, Amy."

Amy raised an eyebrow, interested. "Oh?" she asked. "Then what's the problem?"

Wufei scowled. "Haven't you been listening?" he muttered something about women and leaned forward in his seat. "Don't you notice?"

"Yes," Rei chimed in, surprise evident on her face. "Can't you tell, Amy?"

She looked back and forth between the two, brows furrowed in concentration. "Tell what? What are you talking about?"

"She's—"

"Well," Rei interrupted, smiling brightly and broadly. "It's quite obvious, Amy."

"_What is it?_"

"The woman is pregnant," Wufei said crossly, eyeing his wife's stomach as he spoke. "And she's acting completely irrational."

Amy's jaw dropped slightly.

"Yes," Rei continued pleasantly, ignoring her husband's comment. "I'm due next spring."


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: AU SM/GW. No characters are mine.

**Kin Za Za**

AzureChan

**: II: **

Serena Yui shifted her books from her right hip to her left and, cautiously, shoved her expensive sunglasses up to the top of her head while she balanced a hot cup of coffee, black, in her other hand. She tapped the unlock button to her bright red Mercedes and frowned when the car locks refused to open.

_Not this again_, she thought angrily, and struggled to put her coffee on the top of her car while still holding her heavy books. Ever since she'd taken the car to that mechanic across town—the one Lita had recommended because she used to work for him—her car had been giving her the worst problems known to man. Or, for that matter, woman.

"Shoot," she cursed, and bent from her waist down to the ground to drop her books on the pavement. She'd have to open the car manually. It wasn't that sticking a key into a lock was any difficult task, it was that she'd had problems with the locks on her door two weeks after she'd bought the Lexus from that dealership down the street, and she'd asked Lita for some help. Lita had given her "expert" advice and told Serena to take her car to the mechanic about two hours away from her home.

"I paid six-fifty for nothing," she murmured when the car opened reluctantly after she stuck the key in the lock. She gathered her books from the ground, threw them in the passenger's seat and slid into the car, huffing. She made a mental note to call Lita later in the evening to complain about her new and "improved" locking system.

"Piece of crap is more like it," she said, and put her car into gear after closing the door and securing her seatbelt. "I swear," she continued to herself. "It's so hard to find some decent help these days. Everyone is all for taking your money, but they never give anything back." She started to back up when she looked through her front window and spotted Hilde Schbeiker, her so-called protégée, waving frantically to her from across the parking lot.

Serena sighed. Hilde was a sweet girl, but a little on the needy side. It was always, "What do you think about this, Mrs. Serena?" or "How does that look, Mrs. Serena?" or "Am I doing it right, Mrs. Serena?" The girl just didn't have that crucial flair of independent flamboyance that was vital when pursuing a formal but artistic career—fashion design.

But still, Hilde waved and flapped her arms at Serena's car, the expression on her face one of immense worry and dread. _Probably needs my opinion on the Peace Project_, Serena thought reproachfully. _That girl needs to learn how to go on a limb and just do things herself…_

She backed up sharply.

And then she cursed when her coffee cup tumbled down off the top of her newly washed Lexus, and the dark liquid slid in rivulets down the front of her car's window.

From her position across the parking lot, Hilde winced at the impact of the cup and Mrs. Serena's pretty Lexus, and then winced again as she watched the woman's face brighten and redden while her mouth flapped open and closed, wide and angry.

_Poor Mrs. Serena,_ Hilde thought sadly while she reached into her pocket to retrieve her cellular phone. She dialed quickly, held the phone to her ear and watched while Mrs. Serena's mouth closed for a moment, and she snatched her phone up and brought it to her ear.

"Yes?" came the snarled squeak on the other line, and Hilde sighed mournfully in response.

"Oh, Mrs. Serena," she gushed apologetically, waving when the woman's head snapped up to stare at her from across the parking lot through her car's window. "Oh, I saw the _whole thing_. I tried waving to you to tell you that your coffee was still on the top of your car, but I guess you couldn't see me through those big _tinted_ windows…"

From across the lot, Serena glared daggers at the young woman, one hand gripping the wheel so tight that her knuckles were blotched with white.

"Mrs. Serena," Hilde continued, voice wrought with sorrow, "it's such an awful thing that's happened. Coffee stains are _so hard_, I hear, to wash off of car windows. No matter how many times you wash your car, that icky little stain will _always be there_—"

"For goodness' _sake_, Hilde," Serena sputtered, voice frustrated, "could you please tell me something that I am _not_ already aware of?"

There was a small silence on the line as Hilde thought quickly, and Serena narrowed her eyes suspiciously when the girl across the lot smiled brightly after a moment.

"Well, Mrs. Serena," Hilde began happily, "I have a few good ideas on the Peace Project that I would just _love_ to run by you tomor—"

Serena slapped her cell phone shut, then gunned her engine and sped off, smashing the rest of her coffee cup under thick rubber tires.

**_X.X.X.X_**

"Traffic? Yeah, sure. It's heavy on I-85. I wouldn't take that route if I were you, babe."

Serena slumped in her seat and fought an urge to completely turn off her car. Traffic had been backed up for the last ten minutes, and she'd called Lita, the mechanical expert, to know why.

"I already did, Lita," she said miserably, "and could you put Trowa on the phone?"

Trowa was Lita's current fad, current obsession. Technically, he was just her roommate until he found a better place to live, but Lita had quickly rented him the space for as long as he needed. Right out of technical college and he'd been pounced on by Lita. Serena almost felt sorry for him.

"Yes." And that's all he said when he took the phone.

For a moment, she smiled. Trowa was a curious character. His speech was short, precise, and to-the-point. His face often carried an expression that could almost be called blank, except the word would have done his features injustice. He was always concentrated, focused. He stood tall, over six feet, and held a stately posture and had a proper walk. He reminded her so much of Hiiro…

"Trowa," she greeted him happily. "Dependable friend. How goes the living arrangements?"

"I'm alive," he said, and she knew he was making a joke.

She laughed. "I'm sure Lita is working you to death, huh? Has she told you that she lost her bed sheets to the wash and needed to sleep with you until they found?"

"I slept on the couch," he replied calmly. "For a week."

"Oh, Trowa," she was laughing again, "you didn't!"

He remained silent.

Her laughter faded and she cleared her throat. Just like Hiiro, Trowa took things slowly, calculated every move a person made, every word a person spoke. He was a human computer, and when one challenged his word, whether in a joking manner or not, he reverted to silence to express his disapproval of their reply. He thought she was challenging his word, so he didn't reply to what she'd said. Exactly like her soon-to-be ex-husband, Hiiro.

That was one of the things that drove her away from him.

"—rena? Serena, are you there?" Lita was back on the phone, her gibbering halted. "Well, anyway, you know my policy about talking on phones while driving."

Serena rolled her eyes and moved her car. Traffic had become slow, but steady. At this rate, she'd hopefully make it home soon within the next half-hour.

"Your silence speaks volumes, my dear."

"Oh, _Lita_," Serena smiled wryly.

"What? Besides. I think Trowa is starting to warm up to me."

"Sure, Lita."

"Just last night, I sat next to him on the common-room's couch, and he only scooted over an _inch_ this time."

Serena laughed. "Lita!"

"And that's not all, Nena," Lita's voice dropped down to a whisper. "I totally saw him checking out my boxers this morning in the laundry room. When I asked him about it, he told me he thought they were _his._"

"So?"

"So, turns out they _were!_ But he was just using them as an excuse to talk _intimate_ with me."

"_Lita!_"

**_X.X.X.X_**

Nine-thirty.

Sitting at the kitchen table, Amy tapped her fingers against Quatre's cold mug of tea. She'd left it on the counter for him just like she did every night. But tonight was different. He usually got home at eight, occasionally eight-thirty. If he was going to be late, he called an hour ahead of time. Quatre was brilliant in this way—he could plan his time down to the exact minute he'd be home. But tonight; nothing. No calls, no pages, not even a fax to his office at home. Not even an E-mail.

Amy was worried. She didn't want to be, however, because lately when she got worried concerning Quatre, it often lead to impossible scenario's including him and another woman. She'd never admit it to him, but Quatre was, in her opinion, far more attractive at thirty-six than she was at thirty-five.

_It's because I'm so frumpy,_ she thought miserably, cheek in hand. It was true that after she'd settled down with Quatre, she'd let herself go a bit. Oh, she wasn't fat—but she wasn't as slim as she had been. She'd settled into a normal routine of crisp white matronly blouses and ankle-length black skirts. Her shoes were black with thick rubber soles to support her back. Ever since her and Quatre started seeing less of each other due to work, Amy's physical appearance and stature had waned. She wasn't happy, and it showed. Lex, of course, brought the utmost joy into her life, but nothing, not even a child, could replace the fact that the man she'd fallen in love with and married was not the same man she was living with. Not even sleeping with, because by the time Quatre came to bed after finishing work in his home office, it was well past midnight, and Amy's bed time was ten.

Nine forty-five.

Amy sighed, and with that sigh came one single, solitary tear. It slid down her cheek and caught at the corner of her hand. She was unhappy, maybe even depressed, and though Quatre had promised a vacation after the Hiiro and Serena case, it didn't erase the nights she spent without him and the days she spent worrying about him even when she was with him. She was worried about their relationship, and to add onto that, lately Lex had been very moody. She didn't like it when Amy tucked her in at night; she wanted Daddy to come kiss her, read to her, and tuck her in. It broke Amy's heart.

Another tear followed the first, and then another, and finally, Amy had to put her palms to her eyes to stop the tears. But they came anyway, and finally, frustrated, she let herself cry.

A cold, clammy hand wrapped itself around her wrist, and Amy jumped at the sudden contact. She found herself staring into two watery gray eyes, one a bit more pink in the corner than the other. Amy quickly wiped her eyes and offered Lex a smile.

"Hi, sweetheart," she said, her voice wavering. "What's wrong? Have you been crying? Your eye looks a little pink, honey."

Lex rubbed at it at the called attention. "It itches," she said, her voice full of sleep. And then, remembering her reason for awakening: "Mommy, were you crying?"

Amy smiled despite her state, shaking her head. For as long as she could remember, Lex had always been extremely sensitive to her emotions. When she was three, she would wake up in the middle of the night if Amy found it hard to fall asleep. When Amy was pregnant with Lex, the child would stir restlessly at the slightest notion of Amy's discomfort. Amy thought the connection quite special.

"Mommy's fine," she said, and reached forward to brush her hands over Lex's dangly ash locks. The child had inherited a shade of Amy's natural color, so her hair looked like a mixture between ash gray and blue. Her eyes were also gray with little flecks of turquoise, compliments of Quatre. Amy looked closely at the child's eye. It looked more pink than she had realized. And Lex had said it itched.

"Honey, how long has your eye been bothering you? Did it start watering on its own?"

The child nodded and reached up to rub the offending eye, but Amy took her hand and held it. She figured Lex had pink eye and decided she'd have to take the child to Dr. Maxwell for treatment.

"Where's Daddy?"

The question stung Amy. "Work," she mumbled. "He's at work. Daddy's working."

Lex looked uncertain, but she said nothing. She merely held her hand out and when Amy grabbed it, said, "Let's go to bed, now. It's bedtime."

It was a wisdom Amy would never understand but never forget.

**_X.X.X.X_**

Serena lay on her back in her bed, hair fanned out in wet curls against her silk pink pillows and hands wrapped gently around a rose that lay against her bare breast. She was nude. The deep pale peach of her room was darkened to an almost burnt orange color due to the darkness of the night outside, and the fire from the candles she had set up on her huge oak night stand splayed shadows across the ceiling. The hypnotic, almost haunting melodies of Kin Za Za floated throughout her room. The words played a game with her memories.

_Midnight, and I'll be coming home…_

Her eyes were staring up at her canopy. It was a fabric so sheer that she only saw it in the daytime. Now, through the darkness, it looked like a haze of nostalgia, and caught in that haze was Hiiro, staring down at her with eyes so piercing in color that she'd named them Promise. Others said his eyes were Prussian, but she always objected, saying, _"My Hiiro's eyes are the color of Promise."_

Promise.

The word made her turn her head only slightly and instantly, Hiiro's face faded and a new picture molded together. They were together in bed, apart but closer than they ever had been. The relationship had started off physical—they'd met at a high society party filled with a bunch of people searching for a purpose amidst money and expensive wine. She'd only had two drinks, he'd had none. Their chat was simple, common-place. She spoke of her profession, he spoke of his.

But something about his eyes had captured her from the first moment, and she admitted it later that night as they rolled together in her silk sheets and thick comforters. She'd spoken of her infatuation in her sighs and afterward, in her sweet, languid kisses to his closed eyelids. Her lips begged him to open his eyes, and he obeyed, staring both at her and into her. His piercing, promising eyes. From then on, it had been a living fantasy—work in the morning and an almost drunken enticement at night. It spread from his eyes to his body, and finally, to his mind. She longed to unlock it, discover his secrets, his past—his feelings for her.

Even after they married, he stayed the same. He only elaborated when necessary and the rest of the time, answered her questions directly. He never called her beautiful, only told her she looked "appropriate" when questioned about her appearance in a new Versace dress or crystal earrings she would wear to their next outing. He never spoke of his undying infatuation and love for her on Valentine's Day, only placed a single rose on her stomach because he always woke before she did, and before she opened her eyes, the _fragrance_ met her—not him. He'd never even told her he loved her—not once in their three years of marriage. All he did was look at her, and even that became agitating…

"_Hiiro," she said, and he looked up at her from behind his laptop. She was sitting on the bed and he right next to her, but she felt miles apart from him. Between her fingers was a steaming cup of coffee laced with rum, and the porcelain was burning her fingers but she didn't notice. "Hiiro," she said again, and her voice was shaking. She didn't look up from her cup._

"_I know you're staring at me," she said, and paused to swallow. His eyes hadn't held promise in some time, and she'd noticed it fading just as she noticed his lack of spoken affection. "Hiiro," she said._

_He didn't say a word._

_She closed her eyes tight and two tears squeezed themselves out and landed in her coffee. "Hiiro," she said roughly, "**answer me damnit**!"_

"_I'm right here," he said, and that was it. No change in his tone from his usual voice, nothing. He waited._

Serena caressed the rose. A little breeze blew in from the window and the candlelight flickered restlessly. She remembered how torn inside she'd been to notice his "look" had become nothing more than a stare. And maybe, had always only been a stare. She closed her eyes and felt a slight burn as tears rimmed the eyelid.

"_Hiiro," she had said quietly. "I can't do this anymore. I just can't do this. You don't love me—I don't know if you ever did. You don't talk to me. I can't do this."_

_He shifted. That was it. He shifted in bed. He said nothing._

_It pushed her over her invisible edge. "I want a divorce, Hiiro."_

_This time, he closed his laptop and slid out from under it. Then, he got up from the bed and left the room. Without a word. Not one word._

_Serena erupted in tears and anger, shouting: "Fuck you, Hiiro Yui! I want a divorce! You've never loved me and you never will! I don't understand you—why won't you talk to me?!"_

_Later that day, Serena remembered, he had emailed her. There was no subject line, and when she opened the email, only the words "Amy Winner" were in the message. Looking the woman up, Serena discovered she was a marriage counselor, and it brought tears to her eyes. "Why couldn't you just tell me this?" she whispered to the screen. "Why can't you talk to me?"_

_They had gone to Amy. She was a brilliant woman and the first thing Serena saw when she walked into Amy's office was the picture of her with her husband and daughter. She was a beautiful child with long hair and bright eyes. Amy's husband was a handsome man with strikingly blonde hair and a wonderful smile. Amy herself was a petite, very naturally pretty woman. She wore no makeup and kept her hair simple and short. Serena felt slightly self-conscious when she remembered her own powdered face and perfectly groomed hair and nails. _

_But the woman welcomed them both warmly. Serena spoke first, listing off every problem she had with hers and Hiiro's relationship. She went into full detail, even revealing the private name she had given Hiiro's eyes. "Promise," she had said. "I call his eyes the color of Promise because I see so much of it in them. I used to." The last words were added quickly, and it caused Hiiro to turn his head and look at her. She didn't meet his gaze._

"_Well, Hiiro," Amy said, scribbling in her pad. "How do you feel?"_

_He was still looking at Serena, and she felt it. She waited, prayed inwardly that he'd open up and reveal every feeling he'd ever felt for her. Prayed that maybe she could go home today and spend the rest of her life loving him with a returned love. That was all she wanted. _

"_I'm right here," he said quietly. So quietly that Amy didn't hear it and asked him to repeat, but Serena heard it, and the last bit of hope she had faded. He would never admit how he felt. He was too proud, too scared, too—too something. And she was tired of it._

Serena turned her head. The next four sessions had been a waste and now, they were separated and going through divorce procedures. It would take maybe two more days because Quatre, their lawyer—and surprisingly their marriage counselor's husband—was dealing with both of them at the same time. He was the best. High society only chose the best, even if they'd have to share.

She kept the house and he moved out. He was staying in an apartment in the city, a high rise. He was exactly forty-five minutes away. She remembered driving past once. One night when she let her thoughts wander, as she was doing now. New words to a new song bounced off the walls and pricked at her heart.

_What hurts the most was being so close, and having so much to say—and watching you walk away._

The tears burned through her eyelids and slid down her cheeks.


End file.
